There were worn patches in the stair carpet that had appeared suddenly after all these years, and the wallpaper around the hall door had begun to peel badly and something would have to be done about it. Even the dust seemed to have found new places to settle, or to be settling in different places, and it seemed to her that in sweeping up the dust, day in and day out, all she was doing was sweeping up the time since John had left — more dust every day, more time every day — and she began to think that all she would do for the rest of her life was sweep up the time since John left. The dust got on her nerves. It made her feel sick to see the way it was there every day, new dust, but looking just as old and dirty as the old dust her mother used to be always sweeping up and throwing away, long ago in the country town where she had been born and brought up. As surely as the clock ticked and had to be wound up again, the dust made its way around the house, and it got on her hands. It got on her hands and on her wrists, and no matter how hard she scrubbed her nails, there always seemed to be some of it left there under her nails. She told herself that she had the hands of a servant. Hubert’s hands were soft and neat, but hers were big and rough, as though she were a person who worked with her hands. She had often caught Hubert looking at her hands when she was dealing with the food on her plate and looking at her when she put food into her mouth. She always ate a lot of bread, and she thought he must sometimes wonder how she could eat so much bread or why she ate it so fast. She couldn’t help it — she felt there was something shameful about eating so much of bread or of any food, but she wanted it and she ate it quickly and there were times when she felt her face getting red with defiance and longing when she reached for the loaf to cut another slice. One thing, she had stopped putting jam on the table since John left. She and John both loved jam, but Hubert had no taste for it at all. When John was at home, she used to make jam — raspberry, damson, and gooseberry — but what they both liked best was the thick expensive jam that came in jars from England. It was best not to put the jar on the table. Hubert never questioned the expense, but he would sometimes take the jar in his hand and turn it around and read the label very slowly and then put the jar back again. Even if the jar was nearly full he would tip it and look into it. One time he had said, “It’s a good idea, having something to read on the table.” John had laughed out loud, and she had thought it heartless of him to laugh when he knew that his father was only looking for another way to make little of her.